Queen Victoria — Chapter 4, part 2

III

Albert had foreseen that his married life would not be all plain sailing; but he had by no means realised the gravity and the complication of the difficulties which he would have to face.

Politically, he was a cipher.

Lord Melbourne was not only Prime Minister, he was in effect the Private Secretary of the Queen, and thus controlled the whole of the political existence of the sovereign.

A

queen's husband was an entity unknown to the British Constitution.

In State affairs there seemed to be no place for him; nor was Victoria herself at all unwilling that this should be so.

"The English," she had told the Prince when, during their engagement, a proposal had been made to give him a peerage, "are very jealous of any foreigner interfering in the government of this country, and have already in some of the papers expressed a hope that you would not interfere.

Now, though I know you never would, still, if you were a Peer, they would all say, the Prince meant to play a political part.

I know you never would!"

In reality, she was not quite so certain; but she wished Albert to understand her views.

He would, she hoped, make a perfect husband; but, as for governing the country, he would see that she and Lord M. between them could manage that very well, without his help.

But it was not only in politics that the Prince discovered that the part cut out for him was a negligible one.

Even as a husband, he found, his functions were to be of an extremely limited kind.

Over the whole of Victoria's private life the Baroness reigned supreme; and she had not the slightest intention of allowing that supremacy to be diminished by one iota.

Since the accession, her power had greatly increased.

Besides the undefined and enormous influence which she exercised through her management of the Queen's private correspondence, she was now the superintendent of the royal establishment and controlled the important office of Privy Purse.

Albert very soon perceived that he was not master in his own house.

Every detail of his own and his wife's existence was supervised by a third person: nothing could be done until the consent of Lehzen had first been obtained.

And Victoria, who adored Lehzen with unabated intensity, saw nothing in all this that was wrong.

Nor was the Prince happier in his social surroundings.

A shy young foreigner, awkward in ladies' company, unexpansive and self-opinionated, it was improbable that, in any circumstances, he would have been a society success.

His appearance, too, was against him.

Though in the eyes of Victoria he was the mirror of manly beauty, her subjects, whose eyes were of a less Teutonic cast, did not agree with her.

To them--and particularly to the high-born ladies and gentlemen who naturally saw him most--what was immediately and distressingly striking in Albert's face and figure and whole demeanour was his un-English look.

His features were regular, no doubt, but there was something smooth and smug about them; he was tall, but he was clumsily put together, and he walked with a slight slouch.

Really, they thought, this youth was more like some kind of foreign tenor than anything else.

These were serious disadvantages; but the line of conduct which the Prince adopted from the first moment of his arrival was far from calculated to dispel them.

Owing partly to a natural awkwardness, partly to a fear of undue familiarity, and partly to a desire to be absolutely correct, his manners were infused with an extraordinary stiffness and formality.

Whenever he appeared in company, he seemed to be surrounded by a thick hedge of prickly etiquette.

He never went out into ordinary society; he never walked in the streets of London; he was invariably accompanied by an equerry when he rode or drove.

He wanted to be irreproachable and, if that involved friendlessness, it could not be helped.

Besides, he had no very high opinion of the English.

So far as he could see, they cared for nothing but fox-hunting and Sunday observances; they oscillated between an undue frivolity and an undue gloom; if you spoke to them of friendly joyousness they stared; and they did not understand either the Laws of Thought or the wit of a German University.

Since it was clear that with such people he could have very little in common, there was no reason whatever for relaxing in their favour the rules of etiquette.

In strict privacy, he could be natural and charming; Seymour and Anson were devoted to him, and he returned their affection; but they were subordinates--the receivers of his confidences and the agents of his will.

From the support and the solace of true companionship he was utterly cut off.

A friend, indeed, he had--or rather, a mentor.

The Baron, established once more in the royal residence, was determined to work with as wholehearted a detachment for the Prince's benefit as, more than twenty years before, he had worked for his uncle's. The situations then and now, similar in many respects, were yet full of differences.

Perhaps in either case the difficulties to be encountered were equally great; but the present problem was the more complex and the more interesting.

The young doctor who, unknown and insignificant, had nothing at the back of him but his own wits and the friendship of an unimportant Prince, had been replaced by the accomplished confidant of kings and ministers, ripe in years, in reputation, and in the wisdom of a vast experience.

It was possible for him to treat Albert with something of the affectionate authority of a father; but, on the other hand, Albert was no Leopold.

As the Baron was very well aware, he had none of his uncle's rigidity of ambition, none of his overweening impulse to be personally great.

He was virtuous and well-intentioned; he was clever and well-informed; but he took no interest in politics, and there were no signs that he possessed any commanding force of character.

Left to himself, he would almost certainly have subsided into a high-minded nonentity, an aimless dilettante busy over culture, a palace appendage without influence or power.

But he was not left to himself: Stockmar saw to that.

For ever at his pupil's elbow, the hidden Baron pushed him forward, with tireless pressure, along the path which had been trod by Leopold so many years ago.

But, this time, the goal at the end of it was something more than the mediocre royalty that Leopold had reached.

The prize which Stockmar, with all the energy of disinterested devotion, had determined should be Albert's was a tremendous prize indeed.

The beginning of the undertaking proved to be the most arduous part of it.

Albert was easily dispirited: what was the use of struggling to perform in a role which bored him and which, it was quite clear, nobody but the dear good Baron had any desire that he should take up?

It was simpler, and it saved a great deal of trouble, to let things slide.

But Stockmar would not have it.

Incessantly, he harped upon two strings--Albert's sense of duty and his personal pride.

Had the Prince forgotten the noble aims to which his life was to be devoted?

And was he going to allow himself, his wife, his family, his whole existence, to be governed by Baroness Lehzen?

The latter consideration was a potent one.

Albert had never been accustomed to giving way; and now, more than ever before, it would be humiliating to do so.

Not only was he constantly exasperated by the position of the Baroness in the royal household;

there was another and a still more serious cause of complaint.

He was, he knew very well, his wife's intellectual superior, and yet he found, to his intense annoyance, that there were parts of her mind over which he exercised no influence.

When, urged on by the Baron, he attempted to discuss politics with Victoria, she eluded the subject, drifted into generalities, and then began to talk of something else.

She was treating him as she had once treated their uncle Leopold.

When at last he protested, she replied that her conduct was merely the result of indolence; that when she was with him she could not bear to bother her head with anything so dull as politics.

The excuse was worse than the fault: was he the wife and she the husband?

It almost seemed so.

But the Baron declared that the root of the mischief was Lehzen: that it was she who encouraged the Queen to have secrets; who did worse--undermined the natural ingenuousness of Victoria, and induced her to give, unconsciously no doubt, false reasons to explain away her conduct.

Minor disagreements made matters worse.

The royal couple differed in their tastes.

Albert, brought up in a regime of Spartan simplicity and early hours, found the great Court functions intolerably wearisome, and was invariably observed to be nodding on the sofa at half-past ten;

while the Queen's favourite form of enjoyment was to dance through the night, and then, going out into the portico of the Palace, watch the sun rise behind St. Paul's and the towers of Westminster.

She loved London and he detested it.

It was only in Windsor that he felt he could really breathe; but Windsor too had its terrors: though during the day there he could paint and walk and play on the piano, after dinner black tedium descended like a pall.

He would have liked to summon distinguished scientific and literary men to his presence, and after ascertaining their views upon various points of art and learning, to set forth his own; but unfortunately Victoria "had no fancy to encourage such people;"

knowing that she was unequal to taking a part in their conversation, she insisted that the evening routine should remain unaltered; the regulation interchange of platitudes with official persons was followed as usual by the round table and the books of engravings, while the Prince, with one of his attendants, played game after game of double chess.

It was only natural that in so peculiar a situation, in which the elements of power, passion, and pride were so strangely apportioned, there should have been occasionally something more than mere irritation--a struggle of angry wills.

Victoria, no more than Albert, was in the habit of playing second fiddle.

Her arbitrary temper flashed out.

Her vitality, her obstinacy, her overweening sense of her own position, might well have beaten down before them his superiorities and his rights.

But she fought at a disadvantage; she was, in very truth, no longer her own mistress; a profound preoccupation dominated her, seizing upon her inmost purposes for its own extraordinary ends.

She was madly in love.

The details of those curious battles are unknown to us; but Prince Ernest, who remained in England with his brother for some months, noted them with a friendly and startled eye.

One story, indeed, survives, ill-authenticated and perhaps mythical, yet summing up, as such stories often do, the central facts of the case.

When, in wrath, the Prince one day had locked himself into his room, Victoria, no less furious, knocked on the door to be admitted.

"Who is there?"

he asked.

"The Queen of England" was the answer.

He did not move, and again there was a hail of knocks.

The question and the answer were repeated many times; but at last there was a pause, and then a gentler knocking.

"Who is there?"

came once more the relentless question.

But this time the reply was different.

"Your wife, Albert."

And the door was immediately opened.

Very gradually the Prince's position changed.

He began to find the study of politics less uninteresting than he had supposed; he read Blackstone, and took lessons in English Law; he was occasionally present when the Queen interviewed her Ministers; and at Lord Melbourne's suggestion he was shown all the despatches relating to Foreign Affairs.

Sometimes he would commit his views to paper, and read them aloud to the Prime Minister, who, infinitely kind and courteous, listened with attention, but seldom made any reply.

An important step was taken when, before the birth of the Princess Royal, the Prince, without any opposition in Parliament, was appointed Regent in case of the death of the Queen.

Stockmar, owing to whose intervention with the Tories this happy result had been brought about, now felt himself at liberty to take a holiday with his family in Coburg; but his solicitude, poured out in innumerable letters, still watched over his pupil from afar.

"Dear Prince," he wrote, "I am satisfied with the news you have sent me.

Mistakes, misunderstandings, obstructions, which come in vexatious opposition to one's views, are always to be taken for just what they are--namely, natural phenomena of life, which represent one of its sides, and that the shady one.

In overcoming them with dignity, your mind has to exercise, to train, to enlighten itself; and your character to gain force, endurance, and the necessary hardness."

The Prince had done well so far; but he must continue in the right path; above all, he was "never to relax."

"Never to relax in putting your magnanimity to the proof;

never to relax in logical separation of what is great and essential from what is trivial and of no moment; never to relax in keeping yourself up to a high standard--in the determination, daily renewed, to be consistent, patient, courageous."

It was a hard programme perhaps, for a young man of twenty-one; and yet there was something in it which touched the very depths of Albert's soul.

He sighed, but he listened--listened as to the voice of a spiritual director inspired with divine truth.

"The stars which are needful to you now," the voice continued, "and perhaps for some time to come, are Love, Honesty, Truth.

All those whose minds are warped, or who are destitute of true feeling, will BE APT TO MISTAKE YOU, and to persuade themselves and the world that you are not the man you are--or, at least, may become...

Do you, therefore, be on the alert be times, with your eyes open in every direction...

I wish for my Prince a great, noble, warm, and true heart, such as shall serve as the richest and surest basis for the noblest views of human nature, and the firmest resolve to give them development."

Before long, the decisive moment came.

There was a General Election, and it became certain that the Tories, at last, must come into power.

The Queen disliked them as much as ever; but, with a large majority in the House of Commons, they would now be in a position to insist upon their wishes being attended to.

Lord Melbourne himself was the first to realise the importance of carrying out the inevitable transition with as little friction as possible; and with his consent, the Prince, following up the rapprochement which had begun over the Regency Act, opened, through Anson, a negotiation with Sir Robert Peel.

In a series of secret interviews, a complete understanding was reached upon the difficult and complex question of the Bedchamber.

It was agreed that the constitutional point should not be raised, but that on the formation of the Tory Government, the principal Whig ladies should retire, and their places be filled by others appointed by Sir Robert.

Thus, in effect, though not in form, the Crown abandoned the claims of 1839, and they have never been subsequently put forward.

The transaction was a turning point in the Prince's career.

He had conducted an important negotiation with skill and tact; he had been brought into close and friendly relations with the new Prime Minister; it was obvious that a great political future lay before him.

Victoria was much impressed and deeply grateful.

"My dearest Angel," she told King Leopold, "is indeed a great comfort to me.

He takes the greatest interest in what goes on, feeling with and for me, and yet abstaining as he ought from biasing me either way, though we talk much on the subject, and his judgment is, as you say, good and mild."

She was in need of all the comfort and assistance he could give her.

Lord M. was going, and she could hardly bring herself to speak to Peel.

Yes; she would discuss everything with Albert now!

Stockmar, who had returned to England, watched the departure of Lord Melbourne with satisfaction.

If all went well, the Prince should now wield a supreme political influence over Victoria.

But would all go well??

An unexpected development put the Baron into a serious fright.

When the dreadful moment finally came, and the Queen, in anguish, bade adieu to her beloved Minister, it was settled between them that, though it would be inadvisable to meet very often, they could continue to correspond.

Never were the inconsistencies of Lord Melbourne's character shown more clearly than in what followed.

So long as he was in office, his attitude towards Peel had been irreproachable; he had done all he could to facilitate the change of government, he had even, through more than one channel, transmitted privately to his successful rival advice as to the best means of winning the Queen's good graces.

Yet, no sooner was he in opposition than his heart failed him.

He could not bear the thought of surrendering altogether the privilege and the pleasure of giving counsel to Victoria--of being cut off completely from the power and the intimacy which had been his for so long and in such abundant measure.

Though he had declared that he would be perfectly discreet in his letters, he could not resist taking advantage of the opening they afforded.

He discussed in detail various public questions, and, in particular, gave the Queen a great deal of advice in the matter of appointments.

This advice was followed.

Lord Melbourne recommended that Lord Heytesbury, who, he said, was an able man, should be made Ambassador at Vienna; and a week later the Queen wrote to the Foreign Secretary urging that Lord Heytesbury, whom she believed to be a very able man, should be employed "on some important mission."

Stockmar was very much alarmed.

He wrote a memorandum, pointing out the unconstitutional nature of Lord Melbourne's proceedings and the unpleasant position in which the Queen might find herself if they were discovered by Peel; and he instructed Anson to take this memorandum to the ex-Minister.

Lord Melbourne, lounging on a sofa, read it through with compressed lips.

"This is quite an apple-pie opinion," he said.

When Anson ventured to expostulate further, suggesting that it was unseemly in the leader of the Opposition to maintain an intimate relationship with the Sovereign, the old man lost his temper.

"God eternally damn it!"

he exclaimed, leaping up from his sofa, and dashing about the room.

"Flesh and blood cannot stand this!"

He continued to write to the Queen, as before; and two more violent bombardments from the Baron were needed before he was brought to reason.

Then, gradually, his letters grew less and less frequent, with fewer and fewer references to public concerns; at last, they were entirely innocuous.

The Baron smiled; Lord M. had accepted the inevitable.

The Whig Ministry resigned in September, 1841; but more than a year was to elapse before another and an equally momentous change was effected--the removal of Lehzen.

For, in the end, the mysterious governess was conquered.

The steps are unknown by which Victoria was at last led to accept her withdrawal with composure--perhaps with relief;

but it is clear that Albert's domestic position must have been greatly strengthened by the appearance of children.

The birth of the Princess Royal had been followed in November, 1841, by that of the Prince of Wales; and before very long another baby was expected.

The Baroness, with all her affection, could have but a remote share in such family delights.

She lost ground perceptibly.

It was noticed as a phenomenon that, once or twice, when the Court travelled, she was left behind at Windsor.

The Prince was very cautious; at the change of Ministry, Lord Melbourne had advised him to choose that moment for decisive action;

but he judged it wiser to wait.

Time and the pressure of inevitable circumstances were for him; every day his predominance grew more assured--and every night.

At length he perceived that he need hesitate no longer--that every wish, every velleity of his had only to be expressed to be at once Victoria's. He spoke, and Lehzen vanished for ever.

No more would she reign in that royal heart and those royal halls.

No more, watching from a window at Windsor, would she follow her pupil and her sovereign walking on the terrace among the obsequious multitude, with the eye of triumphant love.

Returning to her native Hanover she established herself at Buckeburg in a small but comfortable house, the walls of which were entirely covered by portraits of Her Majesty.

The Baron, in spite of his dyspepsia, smiled again: Albert was supreme.

IV

The early discords had passed away completely--resolved into the absolute harmony of married life.

Victoria, overcome by a new, an unimagined revelation, had surrendered her whole soul to her husband.

The beauty and the charm which so suddenly had made her his at first were, she now saw, no more than but the outward manifestation of the true Albert.

There was an inward beauty, an inward glory which, blind that she was, she had then but dimly apprehended, but of which now she was aware in every fibre of her being--he was good--he was great!

How could she ever have dreamt of setting up her will against his wisdom, her ignorance against his knowledge, her fancies against his perfect taste?

Had she really once loved London and late hours and dissipation?

She who now was only happy in the country, she who jumped out of bed every morning--oh, so early!

--with Albert, to take a walk, before breakfast, with Albert alone!

How wonderful it was to be taught by him!

To be told by him which trees were which; and to learn all about the bees!

And then to sit doing cross-stitch while he read aloud to her Hallam's Constitutional History of England!

Or to listen to him playing on his new organ 'The organ is the first of instruments,' he said; or to sing to him a song by Mendelssohn, with a great deal of care over the time and the breathing, and only a very occasional false note!

And, after dinner, to--oh, how good of him!

He had given up his double chess!

And so there could be round games at the round table, or everyone could spend the evening in the most amusing way imaginable--spinning counters and rings.'

When the babies came it was still more wonderful.

Pussy was such a clever little girl ("I am not Pussy!

I am the Princess Royal!"

she had angrily exclaimed on one occasion); and Bertie--well, she could only pray MOST fervently that the little Prince of Wales would grow up to "resemble his angelic dearest Father in EVERY, EVERY respect, both in body and mind."

Her dear Mamma, too, had been drawn once more into the family circle, for Albert had brought about a reconciliation, and the departure of Lehzen had helped to obliterate the past.

In Victoria's eyes, life had become an idyll, and, if the essential elements of an idyll are happiness, love and simplicity, an idyll it was; though, indeed, it was of a kind that might have disconcerted Theocritus.

"Albert brought in dearest little Pussy," wrote Her Majesty in her journal, "in such a smart white merino dress trimmed with blue, which Mamma had given her, and a pretty cap, and placed her on my bed, seating himself next to her, and she was very dear and good.

And, as my precious, invaluable Albert sat there, and our little Love between us, I felt quite moved with happiness and gratitude to God."

The past--the past of only three years since--when she looked back upon it, seemed a thing so remote and alien that she could explain it to herself in no other way than as some kind of delusion--an unfortunate mistake.

Turning over an old volume of her diary, she came upon this sentence--"As for 'the confidence of the Crown,' God knows!

No MINISTER, NO FRIEND, EVER possessed it so entirely as this truly excellent Lord Melbourne possesses mine!"

A pang shot through her--she seized a pen, and wrote upon the margin--"Reading this again, I cannot forbear remarking what an artificial sort of happiness MINE was THEN, and what a blessing it is I have now in my beloved Husband REAL and solid happiness, which no Politics, no worldly reverses CAN change; it could not have lasted long as it was then, for after all, kind and excellent as Lord M. is, and kind as he was to me, it was but in Society that I had amusement, and I was only living on that superficial resource, which I THEN FANCIED was happiness!

Thank God!

for ME and others, this is changed, and I KNOW WHAT REAL HAPPINESS IS--V. R."

How did she know?

What is the distinction between happiness that is real and happiness that is felt?

So a philosopher--Lord M. himself perhaps--might have inquired.

But she was no philosopher, and Lord M. was a phantom, and Albert was beside her, and that was enough.

Happy, certainly, she was; and she wanted everyone to know it.

Her letters to King Leopold are sprinkled thick with raptures.

"Oh!

my dearest uncle, I am sure if you knew HOW happy, how blessed I feel, and how PROUD I feel in possessing SUCH a perfect being as my husband..."

such ecstasies seemed to gush from her pen unceasingly and almost of their own accord.

When, one day, without thinking, Lady Lyttelton described someone to her as being "as happy as a queen," and then grew a little confused, "Don't correct yourself, Lady Lyttelton," said Her Majesty.

"A queen IS a very happy woman."

But this new happiness was no lotus dream.

On the contrary, it was bracing, rather than relaxing.

Never before had she felt so acutely the necessity for doing her duty.

She worked more methodically than ever at the business of State; she watched over her children with untiring vigilance.

She carried on a large correspondence; she was occupied with her farm--her dairy--a whole multitude of household avocations--from morning till night.

Her active, eager little body hurrying with quick steps after the long strides of Albert down the corridors and avenues of Windsor, seemed the very expression of her spirit.

Amid all the softness, the deliciousness of unmixed joy, all the liquescence, the overflowings of inexhaustible sentiment, her native rigidity remained.

"A vein of iron," said Lady Lyttelton, who, as royal governess, had good means of observation, "runs through her most extraordinary character."

Sometimes the delightful routine of domestic existence had to be interrupted.

It was necessary to exchange Windsor for Buckingham Palace, to open Parliament, or to interview official personages, or, occasionally, to entertain foreign visitors at the Castle.

Then the quiet Court put on a sudden magnificence, and sovereigns from over the seas--Louis Philippe, or the King of Prussia, or the King of Saxony--found at Windsor an entertainment that was indeed a royal one.

Few spectacles in Europe, it was agreed, produced an effect so imposing as the great Waterloo banqueting hall, crowded with guests in sparkling diamonds and blazing uniforms, the long walls hung with the stately portraits of heroes, and the tables loaded with the gorgeous gold plate of the kings of England.

But, in that wealth of splendour, the most imposing spectacle of all was the Queen.

The little hausfrau, who had spent the day before walking out with her children, inspecting her livestock, practicing shakes at the piano, and filling up her journal with adoring descriptions of her husband, suddenly shone forth, without art, without effort, by a spontaneous and natural transition, the very culmination of Majesty.

The Tsar of Russia himself was deeply impressed.

Victoria on her side viewed with secret awe the tremendous Nicholas.

"A great event and a great compliment HIS visit certainly is," she told her uncle, "and the people HERE are extremely flattered at it.

He is certainly a VERY STRIKING man; still very handsome.

His profile is BEAUTIFUL and his manners MOST dignified and graceful; extremely civil--quite alarmingly so, as he is so full of attentions and POLITENESS.

But the expression of the EYES is FORMIDABLE and unlike anything I ever saw before."

She and Albert and "the good King of Saxony," who happened to be there at the same time, and whom, she said, "we like much--he is so unassuming-" drew together like tame villatic fowl in the presence of that awful eagle.

When he was gone, they compared notes about his face, his unhappiness, and his despotic power over millions.

Well!

She for her part could not help pitying him, and she thanked God she was Queen of England.

When the time came for returning some of these visits, the royal pair set forth in their yacht, much to Victoria's satisfaction.

"I do love a ship!"

she exclaimed, ran up and down ladders with the greatest agility, and cracked jokes with the sailors.

The Prince was more aloof.

They visited Louis Philippe at the Chateau d'Eu; they visited King Leopold in Brussels.

It happened that a still more remarkable Englishwoman was in the Belgian capital, but she was not remarked; and Queen Victoria passed unknowing before the steady gaze of one of the mistresses in M. Heger's pensionnat.

"A little stout, vivacious lady, very plainly dressed--not much dignity or pretension about her," was Charlotte Bronte's comment as the royal carriage and six flashed by her, making her wait on the pavement for a moment, and interrupting the train of her reflections.

Victoria was in high spirits, and even succeeded in instilling a little cheerfulness into her uncle's sombre Court.

King Leopold, indeed, was perfectly contented.

His dearest hopes had been fulfilled; all his ambitions were satisfied; and for the rest of his life he had only to enjoy, in undisturbed decorum, his throne, his respectability, the table of precedence, and the punctual discharge of his irksome duties.

But unfortunately the felicity of those who surrounded him was less complete.

His Court, it was murmured, was as gloomy as a conventicle, and the most dismal of all the sufferers was his wife.

"Pas de plaisanteries, madame!"

he had exclaimed to the unfortunate successor of the Princess Charlotte, when, in the early days of their marriage, she had attempted a feeble joke.

Did she not understand that the consort of a constitutional sovereign must not be frivolous?

She understood, at last, only too well; and when the startled walls of the state apartments re-echoed to the chattering and the laughter of Victoria, the poor lady found that she had almost forgotten how to smile.

Another year, Germany was visited, and Albert displayed the beauties of his home.

When Victoria crossed the frontier, she was much excited--and she was astonished as well.

"To hear the people speak German," she noted in her diary, "and to see the German soldiers, etc. , seemed to me so singular."

Having recovered from this slight shock, she found the country charming.

She was feted everywhere, crowds of the surrounding royalties swooped down to welcome her, and the prettiest groups of peasant children, dressed in their best clothes, presented her with bunches of flowers.

The principality of Coburg, with its romantic scenery and its well-behaved inhabitants, particularly delighted her;

and when she woke up one morning to find herself in "dear Rosenau, my Albert's birthplace," it was "like a beautiful dream."

On her return home, she expatiated, in a letter to King Leopold, upon the pleasures of the trip, dwelling especially upon the intensity of her affection for Albert's native land.

"I have a feeling," she said, "for our dear little Germany, which I cannot describe.

I felt it at Rosenau so much.

It is a something which touches me, and which goes to my heart, and makes me inclined to cry.

I never felt at any other place that sort of pensive pleasure and peace which I felt there.

I fear I almost like it too much."